


Take Me Home

by pristineungift



Series: The Portamis Collection [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, M/M, Missing Scene, Oblivious Aramis, Pining Porthos, Porthos the Pirate, Pre-Slash, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pristineungift/pseuds/pristineungift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis sat at a corner table in the usual tavern, watching Porthos take in some fool at cards.</p><p>
  <i>One Poramis drabble for every episode, starting with 1x02</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madmguillotine](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=madmguillotine).



> I hereby christen this ship the S.S. Poramis.

Aramis sat at a corner table in the usual tavern, watching Porthos take in some fool at cards. It was perfectly obvious that Porthos was cheating, even from Aramis’ seat across the room. Porthos got sloppy with the sleight of hand when he was drunk, and he was a bit into his cups to be swindling travelers. But the lad he was playing with didn’t seem to know a club from a spade, so he deserved to lose his money to Aramis’ way of thinking. Athos wasn’t there to complain at any rate, and Aramis would watch Porthos’ back if it came down to a fight.

Still, they were supposed to be behaving themselves after that near miss with the theft of the royal jewels and setting D’Artagnan up to be thrown in prison with Vadim. The Captain had been most insistent on that point. So Aramis tossed back the rest of his wine and headed over to send the young buck on his way before Porthos ended up owning the man's sister, his house, and his unborn sons.

“There you are, lad, off you go,” he said, shoving the young man’s cloak and hat into his hands, jerking him out of the chair with one elbow as he did so. The boy protested, but Aramis would hear none of it. Leaning forward conspirationally, he whispered, “Between you and me, you don’t want to end up owing any money to this one. He can get mean. Especially when he’s had a few drinks. They say he used to be a pirate, you know.”

The lad glanced at Porthos, and Porthos obligingly scowled and gave a menacing grunt. “We playing another hand, or not?”

The lad decided that they were not and scurried away, probably home to his mother. He had the look of a man who was still attached to the apron strings.

Aramis sat himself down in the lad’s vacated chair and watched as Porthos signaled for another draft of grog. Aramis was never sure whether to believe the stories that told of Porthos the Pirate, but his friend had at least been a sailor long enough to develop a taste for that swill. The one time Aramis had tried some, he swore it had made his tongue grow hair.

“You’re pounding them back quickly tonight,” he commented, gathering up the playing cards strewn about the table.

Porthos grinned. “Not as quickly as you pound through women.”

Aramis burst into laughter, tossing his head back and letting his shoulders shake with it. “That’s a crude way of putting it. I’ll have you know that I am a romantic lover. I don’t conquer. I woo, with honeyed words and soft touches and the occasional display of dashing heroics.”

Porthos snorted. “And that damned stare of yours.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aramis riposted, though he knew exactly what Porthos was speaking of. Still, it wasn’t as if he did it intentionally. He couldn’t help that he had magnetism.

He signaled a passing serving woman for another flagon of wine, his hand finding its way to the cross about his neck when he lowered it. In just the short time he’d had it, the queen’s gift had become something of a luck piece. His fingers worried at it whenever he was thinking, especially when what he was thinking of was the queen herself.

Porthos slammed his grog down on the table with a thump. “Still wearing that, are you?”

Aramis raised both his brows. “It is a token from one of our monarchs. Why wouldn’t I wear it?”

Porthos scoffed. “You’re an idiot, and you’re going to be the death of me yet.” His face was red with drink, and Aramis chose to put his harsh tone down to that. Porthos was usually a merry drunk, but every man was entitled to be surly now and then.

“I think it’s likely that swill you’re drinking will kill you long before I do. Now come, I’ll walk you back to your lodging house. Otherwise you’re likely to miss the morning drills and Athos and I will be dispatched to find whatever ditch you’ve fallen down in to sleep this off.”

Unusually serious, Porthos leaned across the table and gripped the front of Aramis’ tunic, pulling him in close. It was fortunate for Porthos that Aramis would trust Porthos with a knife blade to his throat, for he had challenged men to duels for less than this.

Porthos pulled until their foreheads were pressed together, Aramis’ hair falling over his cheeks to brush against Porthos’ skin.

“Not her,” Porthos said, his voice cracking. “Please not her, Aramis. For once. Just once, could you aim your sights a little lower?” He gave a shuddering breath that Aramis could feel down to his toes, the sound one that whispered sorrows.

Aramis tried to think what could possibly be upsetting Porthos and came up blank. What could ail such a mighty spirit? Jolly Porthos, he who delighted in fighting and gambling and was living exactly the life he wanted. Brave Porthos, who was better to have at your back than an entire garrison of mounted soldiers. Porthos the Pirate who, as he would tell it, was a legendary terror in Spanish waters. 

Porthos turned his head, bumping his nose against Aramis’. Aramis could feel the short hot gusts of Porthos exhaling against his lips.

“Porthos, I – ”

Porthos tightened his grip on Aramis and yanked harder, cracking their skulls together and making Aramis’ chair clatter against the table. “Promise me,” he ordered, and in that moment he sounded like a broken man.

Mouth dry, completely bewildered, Aramis said, “I promise.”

At once Porthos' face relaxed into a wide easy smile, his usual gregarious self. “Good man,” he murmured, then planted a hard smacking kiss just above Aramis' right ear, following it with a ruffle of hair, which he knew Aramis hated.

Aramis huffed, hurriedly patting his hair back into place. “Can I take you home _now_?”

Porthos shrugged, but he was still smiling. “Yes, Aramis. Take me home.”


End file.
